


"...and then the rains came..."

by notjustmom



Series: Tom Robbins Remix [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluffy Angst, M/M, angsty fluff, the return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-08 18:32:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14111484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom





	"...and then the rains came..."

He was beginning to forget him. 

His scent had slowly vanished from the flat, even from his wardrobe. Just last week Mrs. Hudson had caught him tearing apart the flat, searching for something, anything, that smelled like him. After a few too many pints with Lestrade one night a few months ago, he had poured out all of the bottles of Sherlock's expensive hair products and bath gels, thinking it would help him begin to 'start over.' He had picked up shifts at the local surgery, just to have something to do, when he wasn't helping Lestrade on crime scenes. He tried to avoid the restaurants where they had standing orders, but once in a while, he remembered he needed to eat, but more than that - he needed to be reminded that Sherlock once was. Was. Is. As far as he knew, Sherlock was still of the world, in the world. He would know, he would know if, he would feel it, of course he would, if he weren't. He would know the moment when Sherlock - stop. John went into the kitchen and finally opened the cupboard where they would store the good bottles that Mycroft would grudgingly send them at Christmas and for Sherlock's birthday. He had even sent one this past year, perhaps forgetting, or possibly out of shame, no... Mycroft never felt anything, besides apathy. He shook his head, dropped into Sherlock's chair and apologised abjectly to Bernie.

"No worries, mate."

"Do you think...?" John began, then shook his head. "Never mind."

"Do I think -"

"Don't even start, Bern," Charley interrupted. "He's coming home."

John sat up and glared at the pillow. "How do ya know?"

"He promised he would come back."

"It's been over two years, Charley. Almost a year since he's been able to get in touch with me. If he were -"

"John Hamish Watson!' Hildy screeched.

"How the hell do you know my middle n - never mind, but you know, Hildy, the longer he's gone - the smaller the chances that he's -"

"You would know." Hildy sniffed at him.

"I thought I would. But I dunno, Hildy - maybe my antennae were down - he'd be back by now - wouldn't he? Maybe he's got amnesia - has met someone else, just decided to leave me, us, behind."

"He wouldn't do that," Billy whispered. "Not to you, not to us."

"Billy -" John poured himself another drink and tossed it back, then carefully put the bottle down and slowly walked over to the window. "It's still raining, I can't remember a summer like this before. Do you remember the last time we saw the sun, Hildy? I can't remember him, Hildy, it's like he's fading - he always hated having his picture taken, all I have are those god awful press clippings - with the hat - he called it, what did he call it - "

"Death Frisbee." 

"Right. Death Frisbee." John leaned against the window and closed his eyes. "Those damn newspapers. They killed you, Sherlock - Moriarty couldn't kill you, but the damn press..."

"Shhh. I'm here." Wet, shivering arms draped around him and gently pulled him close.

"Sherlock -"

"I promised you I'd be back."

For the first time in two years, four months, and twenty eight days, the flat was silent, save for the harsh sobbing of one man, and the patient murmuring of the other man who kept him from slipping to the floor.


End file.
